


gliding

by cyndakip



Series: the price of perfection [6]
Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: Canada Moist Talkers (Blaseball Team), Gen, Ice Skating, The Grand Siesta, Winter, it has skating AND tim horton's, something more lighthearted than my usual Dot Content!, the entire team is there but I'm not tagging them all, this is also the most canadian thing I've ever written
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-14 17:15:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29545698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyndakip/pseuds/cyndakip
Summary: PolkaDot Patterson finally attends the Annual Canada Moist Talkers Winter Offseason Skating Party, learns how to skate, and learns a few other things along the way, too.
Relationships: Ortiz Morse & PolkaDot Patterson, Workman Gloom & PolkaDot Patterson
Series: the price of perfection [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1969006
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11
Collections: Canada Moist Talkers Fanfiction





	gliding

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write some Fun Siesta Content for a change, so... here's some Fun Siesta Content! (I accidentally spilled a little bit of angst on it, but it's just a little bit, I promise)
> 
> Some context on where they're skating: Real-world Halifax has "The Oval", which is a long, 0-shaped outdoor skating track. It was designed for speed skating, but it's open for free general public skates, and I figure it would be a good place for the team to gather! Of course, I had to figure out how to make it work in a slightly flooded city...

The world slows down during the winter, even in Sunken Halifax. The cold seeps its way into the cracks of the city and settles stubbornly there for months, many people choosing to spend most of their days sheltering inside with hot beverages and piles of blankets. The world slows down on siesta, too. Free for now from nonstop games and chaotic weather and divine interference, the players can simply exist for a while, and try to enjoy it. 

Everything lately has seemed muffled, shrouded in the soft quiet of falling snow and empty stadiums. It’s not unpleasant, of course it’s not, but it’s… uneventful, for the most part. No games to play combined with snow and ice means less time spent with the team, less time pitching even in the park, and more time spent with just Workman and Beasley. Dot certainly doesn’t miss the danger, and they could do without the crowds, but even now they long to be back on the mound, fingers curled around a blaseball, staring down a batter, hearing the _thump_ as the ball hits the catcher’s mitt.

Despite that, the siesta has been… nice, so far. Mostly. It’s been restful, and safe, and it feels normal now, almost, being here with both Workman and Beasley. They’ve had the chance to start putting the past behind them and just live, together, and Dot’s grateful for it.

Though the previous season wasn’t fraught with the usual danger, Dot has to admit it’s still been good to have a break from the chaos of blaseball (a proper break, one where they can simply exist alongside everyone, rather than being trapped alone in a shell while the games, while everything, passed them by) even if they do miss it, too. They don’t know how to _not_ miss it. But right now there’s nothing they have to do, and so they’re not doing anything more than simply standing at the window, watching the snowflakes drift downward to dissolve into the water. For once, Dot thinks they could be content to just stay here and watch the world drift slowly onward for a while.

Of course, the team has other plans.

“Ready to go?”

They turn. Workman is standing there, one pair of skates slung over their shoulders, holding out a second pair to Dot. 

Dot blinks. “Are those for me? I appreciate the gesture, but I do not need skates.”

“That's fine. I’ll just steal ‘em back from you when you’re done.”

“I mean I won’t be doing any skating.”

Workman frowns. “You said earlier you wanted to finally go to one of these.”

Dot had said that, true. Not because they finally decided that the Annual Canada Moist Talkers Winter Offseason Skating Party did, in fact, sound like fun after all, but because they really do want to spend more time with their team. Because the Moist Talkers are still their team, somehow, and will continue to be their team throughout this indefinitely long siesta, and they’re not running away from that anymore.

They just don’t particularly want to skate towards it, instead.

“I'm _going_ ,” Dot reassures Workman. “I just did not intend to skate.”

They seem surprised by this. “It's a skating party. The whole point is to skate.”

“I thought the purpose was team bonding.”

“Well, yes. Team bonding through skating.”

“Hmm.” 

“...You don't know how to skate, do you?”

“I understand the concept of skating.”

Workman sighs. “Dot.” 

“But, yes, I have never skated.”

Workman wiggles the skates a bit. “Time to learn.”

“I should have learned earlier.” 

Dot should have done a lot of things earlier, should have stopped ignoring all the team’s invitations before they stopped inviting altogether -- though they’ve started again, of course, because everything is different now. _Dot_ is different now. Again.

“Sure, it would have been best to learn earlier. But it's better to learn now instead of putting it off forever.”

“It was not going to be _forever_.”

“It'll be fun. I promise.” Workman keeps holding the skates out. Dot doesn't take them. “You okay? If you really don't want to go, you don't have to.”

“...No. I'm fine. It's fine. I would like to go.” And they would, really, it's just... they're still not used to things like this. To doing activities with the team that don't involve blaseball, which is what they were literally made to do. Dot is a pitcher, not a skater, not anything else. They still haven’t quite relearned how to _be_ anything else. Maybe they never will, not even on siesta -- and siestas don’t last forever, and then it’s back to pitching.

“Okay. If you're sure.” Workman doesn't sound convinced that Dot _is_ sure. Because, of course, they're not.

“Yes,” they say anyway.

“All right.” Workman turns. “Beasley! We're leaving!” 

There's an excited bark, and Beasley comes skidding around the corner. At least _he's_ enthusiastic about it, though he's not even capable of doing any actual skating. He’s happy just to be going, though, and Workman bundles him up in a little doggy sweater to help keep him warm before they all step out into the crisp winter evening. 

The abundance of rough salty waves prevents Sunken Halifax from becoming a typical winter wonderland, but snow is still piled high on every rooftop, and several kids are even having a snowball fight on top of a nearby building. Beasley barks until they finally throw one down to him, out of either generosity or annoyance. He catches it neatly in his mouth and continues along with a proud wag of his tail as it starts to melt.

“Maybe we could organize a team snowball fight, too,” Workman muses. “Now that's something you'd be good at.”

“You don’t have to organize team activities based around my only skill.”

Workman stops in their tracks at that, but Dot keeps going, leaving them to rush to catch up. “Dot? Is that what this is all about? Please tell me you don't actually think that.”

“What else is there to think? Pitching is all I was made to do, and in exchange, I'm not good at anything else. Or maybe I never even used to be, before, but it makes no difference either way. I don’t mean to complain. That’s just the way it is.”

“Okay, well, that's not even true,” Workman says with unexpected force. “Forget _activities_ , you’re good at things that matter. You're a good roommate, and a good teammate. You're good at listening to people. You're a good mentor for York and you’ve done so much to help him adjust to living here. You did a great job of looking after Beasley while I was gone, and he loves you, which is the ultimate accomplishment in life, but if that's not enough for you, I could go on and on about your other good qualities.”

Beasley woofs softly and wags his tail, as if to punctuate this statement.

“That will not be necessary,” Dot says, almost smiling for a moment. “But… I know how the world sees me. To them, I am on a level no one else can reach. I am supposed to be dignified and otherworldly, not someone who steps out on the ice and immediately falls on their face. They expect me to be perfect at _everything_ , not just pitching, and I only let them down.” 

“Who cares what the world thinks? Do you _want_ to be perfect at everything?”

Dot doesn’t even need to think it over. “No.” 

“Then you should be glad you aren’t. You think I got to be good at skating overnight? It takes practice. It's _normal_ to be bad at things. It doesn't mean there's something wrong with you, it means you're a person like the rest of us.” 

“I am not a person like the rest of you.” The gods have made quite certain of that.

“You are in the ways that matter.”

Dot looks at Workman in surprise, then quickly looks away. “I don't know if I can believe that.”

“I'll believe it for you until you can believe it too.” 

“...Thank you,” they say quietly. What else is there to say to that?

The Olval has come into sight now. Like so much else, the original one sunk beneath the waves years ago -- Dot has seen it from underwater, in fact, the long track stretching out like an abandoned oceanic road to nowhere, caught in an endless loop, seaweed stubbornly growing up through the cracks. This new one has been built with care by dedicated skaters, resting atop a huge platform supported by pillars to keep it safely out of the water’s reach. Many figures are already zooming around on the ice, and Dot hesitates.

Workman waits beside them. “It's just the team, Dot. The whole world’s not here. The team’s seen you at your worst, and if they see you fall on your face, well, that's far from your worst.”

“Thank you for reminding me.”

“I just mean --”

“I know what you mean. And you're right. I appreciate it. I really do.”

“You sure you want to do this?”

Dot takes a deep breath. “Yes. Let's go.”

They cross the bridge to the platform and approach the surface of the ice, close enough for the others to greet them. McBlase glides effortlessly by, Beans wrapped around her neck like a scarf, and nods as she passes. Kiki comes out of a graceful twirl and waves as she spots them. Budy had been clambering around the snowdrifts in the center, but joyfully dashes across the ice at the sight of Beasley, nearly knocking Fish over in the process. 

“Dot!” York calls. He's bundled up in almost as many layers as Jesús, still unaccustomed to the cold climate. “Check this out!” He lets go of Jesús and CV’s hands and wobbles a few steps on his own.

“Well done,” Dot says. York grins, then promptly flails and falls over. 

“Oof, can I get some Fs in the chat for York?” CV says, sliding neatly to a stop beside him.

“Hey, don't livestream my wipeouts!” York protests, though he's laughing.

“I'm streaming _everyone's_ wipeouts, even my own! Don't take it personally. Besides, don't you want your moms to have some footage of your first time skating?”

“My moms are not the entire internet!”

“It's far from the entire internet,” Jesús reassures him. “It's like ten people.”

“ _Thirteen_!” CV protests. “And I'm sure more will tune in once I tweet that Dot’s here.”

“Oh,” says Dot. 

“Or you could _not_ do that,” Workman suggests, frowning.

“No, it's okay. It might be... good for them to see me. Remind them I am not perfect, and… I do not care what they think.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

(They’re not sure, not really, but they have to start somewhere, right?)

“Don't worry, Dot, it'll be a couple more people at most,” Jesús says. “His content doesn't get a lot of views.”

“Hey!” CV protests again. “I'll shove snow down your neck, how's that for content?”

A smile flits across Jesús’ face. He seems more confident out there on the ice; Dot supposes it feels like home to him in a way that few things can in this universe. “You'll have to catch me first.” He takes off, and CV quickly follows behind, laughing.

“...Thanks a lot, guys,” York says to the open air they've left behind, finally struggling to his feet. 

“They'll be back,” Workman says. “Or one of them will, at least, depending on how that goes.” They turn and toss a pair of skates to Dot, who catches them reflexively. “Put those on while I help York for a bit.” 

Dot looks at Workman’s feet and sees that somehow, they’re already wearing skates. The footwear-related talents of the Shoe Thieves are a mystery even to Dot.

Trusting that York will be in good hands -- and it's not as if Dot could be any help to him here, anyway -- they make their way to the nearest bench, hesitating a moment when they see that it's already occupied by Mooney, but ultimately sitting down next to her.

She seems ready to go, skates neatly laced up, but she's just sitting, looking up at the dark sky -- or looking past it, for someone who is no longer there. Dot isn't sure what to say, but she's already talking anyway. 

“She used to love these parties,” Mooney says, half-whispering. “She’d shine down from above and I'd glide around with her light to guide me.” She turns her head down from the skies and toward the artificial lights that line the way, frowns, and then stares at her skates as if she's no longer sure what to do with them.

Dot suddenly feels as if all their problems are very insignificant.

“She wouldn't want you to stop just because she's gone,” they say hesitantly. “I never knew her well, but I believe she would be happy to know that you are still here, with the team. And we are all here for you.”

“Thank you,” Mooney says absently, though she makes no motion to get up.

For lack of a better idea, Dot stops talking and tries to get their own skates on. Mooney looks over after a minute. 

“You’ve really never done this before, have you? You have to tie them tighter than that or you'll wobble all over the place. Honestly, Dot, you have all those extra fingers, you need to use them more efficiently -- yes, like that, there you go. Double knot them or you’ll trip.” She pushes her glasses up, scrutinizing Dot’s handiwork. “I suppose that’ll do.”

Dot stands up, wobbles, and puts all their arms out for balance, which helps a bit -- but they're not even on the ice yet. They look for Workman and York, spotting them all the way on the other side of the ice. York stumbles, and Workman reaches out to steady him, slowly pulls him along until he regains his balance. They’re not going to make it over here anytime soon.

“...Mooney?”

“Yes?”

“I would appreciate some advice on how to approach this.”

“Don't fall.”

“That is exceptionally helpful advice, thank you. I would never have thought of that myself.”

“Skating _and_ sarcasm? You really are trying new things today.” Mooney gets to her feet with a sigh. “Oh, very well, I can demonstrate. The important thing is to not approach it as if you're trying to walk. Rather, push with one foot and glide with the other, then switch, letting your momentum carry you. It's simple physics, really. Push off, glide.” She steps on to the ice and does just that, gracefully, before looking back.

“You can keep going, if you want,” Dot says. “I’ll observe for a while.”

Mooney pauses, realizing she's been tricked. For a moment she looks unsteady and lost out there, adrift in a sea of artificial light. But then she shakes her head, deciding that she does, in fact, want to keep going, and so she does, pushing off and drifting away, each stride more confident than the last. True to word, Dot watches, studying her movements and wondering how they can possibly manage to replicate them.

“Well, you’ve got your skates on, that's a start,” Workman says, sliding to a stop next to Dot. Dot looks back for York and finds him reunited with Jesús and CV, the latter now extensively covered in snow. York looks a bit steadier on his feet already.

“I had some help.” Dot looks towards Mooney, and Workman follows their gaze.

“You managed to get her out there? I'm impressed.”

“She just needed the right encouragement.”

“And you gave it to her. Told you you were good at more than pitching.” Workman smiles. “Now, come on, let's start getting you good at skating too.”

_Push off, glide._

Just do it, Dot. It's a different rhythm, but you can make it work. It's just ice. Just frozen water. Nobody’s staring at you.

(They do a quick check to make sure that no one is in fact staring at them. Workman is, but that doesn't count. It's an encouraging kind of stare, and they mean well, so Dot doesn’t mind. Not too much, anyway.)

Dot steps onto the ice tentatively, and doesn't fall. So far, so adequate.

_Push off._

_Glide._

_Wobble._

...That wasn't part of the plan. Their arms flail like a windmill, and they manage to stop without falling. 

“Good start,” Workman says, facing them, moving backwards.

“Now you're just showing off.”

“Hey, any Shoe Thief worth their laces needs to know how to move quickly and effectively in any footwear.”

“Even skates? That can’t be useful very often.”

“As our old friend Joe would say, skates are just shoes with knives.”

Dot manages another tentative glide. “This seems like the sort of thing he would enjoy.”

“Yeah, he used to love this. Hard to make it down when you're not just on another team but also in the Shadows, though. No one sees him much anymore.”

“We never saw him much to begin with. He was always lurking somewhere.”

Workman laughs. “True. Good old Joe.”

“The Shadows…” Dot says, as tentative as their next stride. “I suppose Morse will not be able to make it, then?”

“Honestly? I wouldn't put it past him to get here anyway. He never misses a team gathering if he can help it.” 

Dot chances a look towards the road, but there's no sign of him. Not yet, at least. Distracted, they wobble again. Workman darts forward, as if offering to catch them -- but no, that can’t be it, that wouldn’t be possible. They stay upright, anyway.

“Are all the Thieves really as good as you?”

“At stealing? Of course not. At skating?” Workman considers for a moment. “Some of them, yeah. Lachlan never really learned how to steal, but at least he already knew how to skate. He’s always been one of the best at that, if only because he has the unfair advantage of being Canadian. That’s why so many of the Talkers are really good, even Morse.” Lachlan zips by in that moment, proving their point. 

“Ziwa used to do roller dlerby, right? I imagine this must be comparatively easy.”

“Yeah, they're really good on the ice, too. Could give me a run for my money. Good thing we're just here to have fun, and I think they're definitely doing that.”

Dot looks over and finds Ziwa, who is not showing off their speed. Rather, they're staying close to Eugenia, who can’t manage a pace faster than a moderate ooze and is giggling about something while Ziwa smiles fondly.

Fun. That's what this is about. Beasley and Budy are chasing each other through the snowdrifts in excitement, occasionally getting too close to the ice and making someone swerve. Alston and Cedric pass by, Alston in the middle of some absurd story about what supposedly happened last time he was skating, Cedric raising an eyebrow but listening intently. Mooney is skating alongside Greer and Jenkins now, and Dot isn't sure if they're talking about skating or pitching or Mooney’s wife or nothing in particular, but at least she's talking to someone. Meanwhile, CV keeps attempting to do tricks and falling over, followed by York falling over from laughing at him, and Jesús shaking his head at them both but laughing too.

Yes, many of them are good at skating, but that's not what makes it fun. Dot understands now. They take another stride, stronger this time.

_Push off._

_Glide._

_Push off._

_Glide._

_Push off._

_Glide._

_Wobble._

And when they finally fall, they don't care who might be watching.

“You all right?” Workman asks, sliding to a stop.

“Yes,” Dot says, and means it.

Workman holds out a hand as if to help Dot up, and Dot doesn’t move at all, because suddenly they don't understand anything anymore.

Workman offers their hand like it’s the natural thing to do, as if Dot’s own hands are normal like theirs, rather than fourth-dimensional and more like tentacles than hands and incomprehensibly _many_ , and as if Workman would not mind touching them at all. But that can’t possibly be true. No one touches Dot’s hands, ever. How could anyone bear to? How could _Workman_ , when these hands did nothing but throw pitches over and over and over and couldn’t let that game end until it was too late?

“I do not need help,” Dot says, and it comes out much sharper than they intended.

“I… I know. I'm sorry.” Something about Workman seems to shift slightly as they withdraw their hand, becoming more closed off, almost as if they’re disappointed. How could Dot be doing the wrong thing by keeping those hands away? Dot doesn’t want to hurt Workman in any way, ever, never again, but if it hurts them to _not_ accept their help… then what?

“But. I would not be opposed to receiving some anyway. If you are offering. Though you do not have to. And I do not understand why you would.” 

“Why wouldn't I?”

“Because... because I… I am…”

“Because you're you?”

“...Yes.”

“But that's exactly why I'm doing this.” Workman holds out their hand again, and though this still does not make sense, Dot wants it anyway.

And so Dot reaches up cautiously and lets Workman fold perfectly normal fingers into their ever-shifting eldritch ones. Workman doesn’t even flinch as they pull Dot up, and despite the strangeness of it all, they don't let go afterwards, giving the hand-that’s-not-quite-a-hand a gentle tug instead. 

“Come on, I'll show you how it's done.” 

Dot doesn't let go, either. And so they let Workman lead them around the ice, slowly at first, and then -- well, still slowly, but with a bit less wobbling. Dot is concentrating very intently on their feet, because if they concentrate on their hands, well… it’s a lot to think about.

“See? Told you Morse would be here,” Workman says suddenly, and Dot looks up in surprise at the battered old truck rattling to a stop nearby. They're the one who's supposed to notice these things, and yet they haven't been paying attention to the world at all; they haven't been able to think about anything other than the completely impossible situation that's been unfolding.

Workman leads them over to the edge of the ice, where Dot quickly unlaces their fingers and pulls their hand away, because Workman shouldn't have to touch something like that for any longer than necessary.

The rest of the team gathers around as Morse and his husband step out of the truck, carrying an entire team's worth of Tim Horton's coffee. Dot hangs back while the others rush to collect their beverages and greet their old teammate, but Morse still spots them and waves them over.

“Dot! I have one with heavy foam, just for you.”

“How did you know I would be here?” Dot carefully takes their coffee from the tray in Morse’s almost-invisible hands. His form fades in and out even at night, the Shadows never fully loosening their grip.

“Lucky guess.”

“Well. Thank you.”

“You're quite welcome. Enjoying the skating?”

“Yes, actually.” Dot wraps two of their hands around the warmth of the cup and thinks about how Workman's hand was cold, and yet somehow it felt… nicer, whenever Dot managed to stop panicking about it for a split second. 

Coffee is far less complicated, though. Coffee has no opinions whatsoever about Dot’s hands.

“It’s good to do something other than pitching for once, isn't it?” Morse asks.

“It is,” Dot says, and is surprised at how much they mean it. After so many seasons of pitching being everything, they appreciate that it might become almost just… _something_ , even if that won’t last.

“It's nice to see you like this.”

“Skating?”

“Happy.” Morse looks at Workman when he says it. Workman’s on a bench nearby with one hand holding their coffee and the other petting Beasley, who’s worn himself out from all the running around. They’re talking to Ziwa, but turn their smile towards Morse and Dot when they notice the two of them looking.

“Oh. Yes. I suppose I am.” Dot manages an awkward smile in return and quickly stops looking at Workman. This happiness has been unexpected, and complicated, and tentative, but it is happiness all the same, and Dot has somehow been gradually falling into it ever since they fell out of that shell.

“Glad to hear it.”

“Are _you_ happy? In Seattle?”

Morse is quiet for a moment, fading out to almost nothing before coming back into focus. 

“I'm happy in many ways. I'm grateful for the opportunity to spend more time with my husband, and more time revisiting my old hobbies. Seattle's a nice city, and I enjoy running the Grill and helping people out when I can. I don't mind being in the Shadows too much, but I wish... I do wish things had turned out differently for Mike. He deserved better than ending up trapped in here again. And I miss you all, of course. Every day.”

Does Morse regret stepping back, when it ultimately hadn’t been enough to keep Mike out in the light? 

“You did the best you could.”

“Yeah. I've heard that a lot.” He fades away a little more. 

“You have done so much, Morse. For both the Talkers and the Garages. More than I could have ever done.”

He fades back in just to frown at Dot. “Hey, don't you sell yourself short either. I know you would have done the same in my place. And you've done a lot for the Talkers, too.”

Dot has to admit they would also have willingly dived into the Shadows, if only because they feel they wouldn’t be particularly missed as anything more than a pitcher, unlike whoever they’d be bringing out. And they have won many games for the Talkers, at least, though they don’t consider that “doing a lot”. It’s nothing more than a job they have no choice in doing. But Morse doesn’t want to hear any of that.

“All right. We are both wonderful and accomplished in many ways.”

Morse grins. “That's more like it. Say that enough times and maybe we'll start believing it about ourselves.”

“All right. We are both wonderful and accomplished in many ways.” Dot cracks a smile. “Is it working yet?”

He laughs, and Dot joins in, and they stand there sipping coffee for a while and talking, other teammates drifting in and out to join the conversation, and it's -- well, it's not quite like old times, it's different, but it’s good. 

“Ready to go back out?” Workman asks, coming to join them, Beasley trotting along behind.

“Go on, Dot,” Morse says. “Try not to get _too_ good at it before I manage to drag my old bones out there, all right? I'd appreciate at least a few moments of being better than you at a splort for once.”

“No fear of that,” Dot says. “I won’t be any competition for you on the ice anytime soon.”

“Ah, I'm not worried, either. Not for a little while yet, at least. Go have fun.”

Morse is grinning, and Beasley is wagging his tail, and Workman is smiling invitingly as they hold out their hand, _again_ , as if the first time somehow didn't even bother them, and Dot still does not believe that this is possible, but -- maybe they can try to believe it, even just for a moment, even if it never happens again? 

“I think I just might,” Dot says, and they step onto the ice with Workman, and they glide.

**Author's Note:**

> EDIT: EVERYONE LOOK AT [THIS PERFECT WONDERFUL ART](https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/762463321449300018/812170884579065866/image0.jpg) THAT SANIC DREW OF THIS FIC!!!
> 
> I just think Dot deserves to not hate themselves and their body, and learn to touch people without freaking out about their hands... it might take some time, but they'll get there.
> 
> I know Workman and Joe were never on the same team at the same time, but there's lore about them helping each other adjust to their new teams after the swap, so I figure they know each other fairly well. Plus, Joe still liked to go to these parties even after leaving the Talkers, because he's a big fan of ~~knives~~ skates.
> 
> It was so nice to write Morse again! Have I mentioned that I miss Morse? Gosh, I miss Morse.
> 
> Anyway, I had fun with this! I hope you liked it too. Thanks for reading <3


End file.
